


the history books forgot about us

by MatildaSwan



Series: Whispers of a Myth [1]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Bernie is Berenice again, Blood and Injury, F/F, Graphic Description, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, I give you the monster!verse fic no one asked for, Serena is a faerie, she is a valkyrie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: They were called to grant aid to opposing sides war gone on for far too long. Their meeting on the battlefield was inevitable, inescapable, predestined: some might even call their meeting fate. In any case, it was certainly the stuff of legends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> CW: fairly harsh language about injured and dying bodies. 
> 
> That being said, I don't think the content or language this warrants an explicit rating but it is certainly for mature audience.
> 
> Also the creatures in this are more inspired by Norse and English mythology than drawn directly. Sorry to any historians or mythology buffs who may read this.
> 
> Also song title from Regina Specktor's "Samson"

They come all at one: arrive in boats, along the beaches. Their numbers are large; so too is the amount of those grown on home soil. Both sides fight with vigour, with fervour, with relish. The battles are brutal, the battles are bloody. The battles are many, as are the dead and dying.

Each side believe in grander beings full of adoration and condemnation. Each have their own myths and legends, and pray to their own deities for guidance, for protection, for strength. Each side charge into battle with their own creatures of power no far behind. 

Time and time again Berenice ventures out to the fight, casting her decision on the balance of life. She rides above the battlefield, a chorus of ravens in her wake and the howl of wolves on the wind, deciding the balance of life and death for the soldiers below. 

Her chosen some see her as they die: tall and terrifying stride a giant jet black mare. She has reaped countless souls in her time; seared them to her heart and escorted them to the fields of eternal peace. She occupies the thoughts of many as they enjoy Valhalla. Occupies the minds of even more of those that rest in the fields of Fólkvangr. The think her cruel, they think her beautiful: a face carved of marble and stoney eyes to match. They think of her often; Berenice of Odin’s court does not think of them at all.

Time and time again Serena ventures out into the fray, pulling those back from the brink of death.She flies around the battlefield, leaving behind birdsongs and the crash of a waterfall to flow on the breeze. She sparkles like a firebug as she outsmarts the balance of death for those that pray for her.

Some on the battlefield see her, others do not: she glitters in the corner of once-dying men’s eyes. They see a vision of dark mud brown and deep moss green. They feel her fire and rage, know her kindness and warmth. Images of her weave themselves through the dreams of all those she saves. She appears during the slumber of those that stood close by as well.They dream of her warm hands and the brightness of her power and her too full heart. She thinks of them often, but does not dream at all, does Serena of the forest fay. 

It was inevitable that they would meet as opposites called to aid into a too long war. It was inescapable that they would meet, eventually, on a bloody, broken battle field. Their meeting was, possibly, predetermined, preordained, predestined. Perhaps their meeting was fate.

 

*

 

The battle rages with the crash of metal on metal, the clunk of wood on wood. Hollow shouts and haggard calls carry across the crowded paddock, adding to the horns and cries and screeches that rose from the field. They fight like lions: they fall like flies. 

Serena lands on her feet in a pool of gore. She stands next to a dying man praying with his last breathe. She crouches by his side: knits his bones, mends his flesh, and soothes his pain. She saves him because he asked her to. She saves him because today need not be his day.

Berenice feels the connection between her and his soul ripped in half, taking his entrance into Valhalla along with it.She rides down, sturdy hooves crushing grass underfoot. She stays mounted on her horse, silhouette large and looming in the last rays of the sun. 

“He was one of mine.” Her voice the howl of wolves and the clapping of thunder. Serena does not crumble under its weight. 

“Now he is one of mine.” Her voice the cries of the forest and rage of a storm. Berenice does not curl under its force. Nor does she argue; rears her steed and charges back onto the breeze. 

 

*

 

Again and again Berenice sees the fluttering of that faerie; shining as the evening sun sets as the fighting lulls. Again and again she feels the warmth and the glow of power pouring though damaged and dying bodies making them whole again. Again and again she sees call after pray after plea answered as the fighting wages on. 

Each battle the balance shifts, over and again. She can feel the woman healing bodies that contain her chosen souls and her numbers change. Each time sends a hum through her body and slices at her heart. The hum grows louder and the cuts start to overlap and she begins to burn. 

Berenice stares down on from high above and feels her heart fill with something like hate for that healing faerie.

 

*

 

Again and again Serena sees that marble statue sat astride a jet black horse, charging high above the roar of war.Again and again she sees golden hair gleaming in the midday sun and a mouth curved in a cruel smile, waiting patiently for bodies to expire and release the souls contained within.Again and again Serena turns away and back to the battle: answers every pray for healing she hears.

She save those they call to her, repairs their bloody and broken bodies. Fixes their bones and sews their cuts: burns out infections and leaves a blossom of calm in their mind. She saves the injured who beg for her help.She restores those who have no need to die that day and feels the raven’s eyes staring murder at her from up on high.

 

*

 

Another battle, in a too long war. The grass bloody as the sun starts to set. Berenice has reaped: corralled the departed of the day, ready to be escorted. She sees the faerie knee deep in the muck of battle but the flow of her power has long since gone. Yet she stays on the field, kneeling beside a boy. Berenice lands, leaving hoof prints in her wake.

“You cannot help him.” She need only whisper, now the din of the battle field as passed. 

“He is one of mine,” Serena whimpers “I cannot let him die.” 

“You cannot help him” Berenice repeats, sat on top her mighty steed. “It is his time. Leave him.”

Serena is mortified; looks up with such anguish etched onto her face. A silent plea only a valkyrie could hear.

“I shall take him.” Berenice dismounts; strides over to the body. “Now he is one of mine.”

Serena smiles, lips pulled wide and face shining bright. 

Never before as Berenice has seen a faerie smile: it burns brighter than the searing in her heart as the soul of the dead boy bonds with her. 

 

*

 

Something changes, after that, on the battlefield. The fighting is the same: swords and axes and spears against shields and lamellar and leather armour. Bones crunch under wood and metal bites into flesh and the conflict continues long after death rattles ring out. But the aftermath feels different, to those exsanguinating in puddles of their own warmth. It is calmer, kinder even: the dark somehow brighter. 

Something changes in both the reaper and the healer too.Berenice starts to wonder about her reaped souls and Serena begins to dream. 

The faerie — always been able see the difference between the ones who can live and the ones whose time has come — begins to accepts loss of those she cannot save without their passing boring a hole in her breast. She eases their pain but not their injuries: adds her mark to their hearts and calls out with her mind and her heart. 

The valkyrie develops patience: claims souls as they call her rather than calling to the souls. Hears her calls too, sparking and green, for those she is unable to help in the heat of battle. She arrives, faerie long since gone. She can still hear the silence of the forest over the din of the battle. Can still feel the hum of power in each body, see the marks already scored into each soul. She is careful when she adds her own mark and her numbers begin to balance once more.

Soon so many in the fields of peace are consumed with thoughts of both of them. 

 

*

 

The fighting stops and starts and stop, only to start again: constant repetition in an ongoing war. Years, decades, pass on and the fighting continues. Berenice reunites souls with their kindred long dead. Serena meets the children of the soldiers she once saved.And yet the war does not stop: wears on and on till the shores are stain red and the number of humans dwindle. Their losses serve only to strengthen their prays.

The the youngest of their ranks age to adulthood. The leaders rally their soldiers and the warriors implore to their powers. Both courts, of Odin and of the forest, join the fray for one final fight, it turns out to be. The full force of each army stretch from the beaches to the mountain. 

Berenice watches, riding in the expanse of the sky. Serena flutters, between the moribund number lying on the earth. They are both so very tired: exhausted past the bone and through their heartsOne looks up, the other looks down: they lock eyes across the battlefield. 

Something draws Berenice off the horse; she float on a murder of crows. Something pulls Serena up from the skirmish; she flies above the field. They hang in midair, as the crash and clang of metal rising from below. They wait, baited breath, bodies humming and souls singing. 

They start, towards each other, flying over the top of field and above the fighting. They meet, high above the war below them.They touch, fingertips brushing to press their hands together: marble white and moss green.

They draw closer. The space is awash with energy. They kiss, slowly. They kiss, with hunger. A storm rages and the ravens exit. They float, clinging to each other as they climb slightly higher in the sky. They kiss and kiss and kiss; as if the field beneath them is empty, as if everything they have ever wanted in the world is finally in their grasp.

The battle below their feet quietens. Their weapons still and the fighting stops. Wounds do not hurt and souls do not depart. The two armies look up into a empty sky: know something is there, can feel something there. Somethingsparkles in the corner of their eyes, something just outside of reach. 


End file.
